Predator One by Jonathan Maberry
If we made any mistakes, America was going to grind its way into a new dark age. Although the president was grounding all military aircraft, there were still a lot of ships with missiles. Crews aboard each one were cutting cables to the computer systems in a desperate rush to keep Regis from launching a self-inflicted war.
In some cases, though, the efforts were too little and too late. A destroyer, the USS Momsen, leaving Pearl Harbor tried to self-launch Tomahawk missiles. The crew managed to secure the launch tubes, but the warheads went live. The Momsen blew itself in half. Rescue crews were searching for survivors. At last count they had only found three.
In the waters off Yokosuka, Japan, the USS Ronald Reagan’s engines and navigation system went active and autonomous. Before the crew was able to physically disable the motors, the massive aircraft carrier had smashed its way through twenty-six commercial vessels in a fishing fleet and rammed the helicopter carrier JDS Izumo. Both ships were taking water and listing badly.
The butcher’s bill kept growing, tightening the knot of tension around our throats. Thousands of lives. Billions of dollars.
And no end in sight.
All banking in the United States had been shut down. Schools were closed and most other activities were canceled. All trading was suspended. However, around the world, the stock markets were going wild, much of the panic fed by our own news media.
The Seven Kings were winning.
Winning.
It was like playing chess when the other guy had all the pieces.
It was impossible to know if the Regis agenda was working as planned. If this was exceeding their expectations, then fuck them. If this was falling short of their hopes, it was still bad enough.
The DMS computer team was working to track whoever was raking in profits from the swings in the global market. The problem was that there were so many people getting rich that it was hard to point at anyone who stood out as clear agents of the Kings.
Already, Yoda’s computer models were suggesting that the system couldn’t take much more of this. Some kind of collapse was coming. All it needed was one more push. One more punch.
Echo Team rode the dark winds trying to beat that punch.
We had no idea if we were already too late.
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-six
Air Force One
In Flight
April 1, 3:33 P.M. Pacific Standard Time
On the conference-room screen, the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge were bowing toward the water. Fire was woven inside great cables of smoke, and they coiled upward toward the clouds. Small dark objects continued to fall.
Cars.
People.
Lives.
“Goddamn you all to hell, you miserable pricks!” screamed the president as he whipped his arm across the table, sending laptops and papers and coffee cups flying, showering the generals and Marcus Bain and Alice Houston. “You let this happen. You fucking let this happen.”
The conference-room door burst open, and two Secret Service agents stepped in, hands reaching for their sidearms. Brierly waved them back.
“Mr. President,” said Bain, pawing hot coffee from his eyes, “we couldn’t stop this.”
“You should have seen this coming!”
“Mr. President,” barked one of the generals, “no one could have foreseen this.”
For a moment it looked like the president was going to go over the table at him.
The moment held, stretching as taut as a fiddle string. The tension hummed in the air of the small conference room. Then the president shoved himself back from the brink of violence and turned toward the big man who sat at the far end of the table.
“Mr. President,” said Church, “which control system was installed on Air Force One?”
The president gaped at him. He tried to say the name, but he simply could not. For a moment, none of them could.
So Church said it. “It’s Solomon, isn’t it?”
The president whispered, “God save us all.”
Mr. Church launched himself from his seat, pushed past the dazed advisors, and made for the door.
He almost made it before all the lights on Air Force One winked out and plunged the interior of the aircraft into total darkness.
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-seven
Tanglewood Island
Pierce County, Washington
April 1, 3:35 P.M.
Below us, the rain-swept island swelled from a dot to a lump to a piece of rocky terrain with features I could now pick out. There was a long, slender pier thrusting out into the choppy waters of the sound, and a smaller boat dock on the far side that allowed medium-sized pleasure crafts to offload under a canopy. From what we’d been able to determine via the satellite images, the best angle of approach was the northeast, between the long pier and the maintenance wing of the hotel.
“Cowboy to Echo, Cowboy to Echo,” I said. “Let’s go in and end these evil sons of bitches.”
“Hooah,” they all said.
On the way here, Top and Bunny and Brian called this for different people. For Bug and Auntie. For Dilbert Howell. For Circe. For Philadelphia and San Francisco.
In truth, though, it was for everyone from sea to shining sea. No joke, no trash talk. This one was for everyone.
I dipped my kite to spill the air from the black wings, and then I was falling, falling, dropping toward the black water fifty yards from the jagged rocks. The altimeter told me I was fifty feet up, forty, thirty. I usually sweat heights, but today wasn’t the day to give in to little fears. Not when people were dying right now. Not when people were in pain right now.
At twenty feet, I angled the wings to stall my rate of drop; and at ten, I hit the big release button on my chest. The wings collapsed backward, the tubing and frame slithered around my chest and thighs and waist, and I was in free fall. I pressed a hand to my goggles to keep them from bouncing and bashing my face to Ledger paste. Then my heels hit the surface, and I went down into the cold waters of Puget Sound.
Behind me, the others dropped down.
As the waters closed over me, I kicked hard and shot back to the surface, angled forward, and struck out hard for shore. My gear weighed a ton, but we’d prepared for that. I popped a cord on my chest harness, and two small tanks shotgunned compressed air into a buoyancy bladder. My body rose toward the surface, and I broke through and gulped in the clean air. Fifty feet away, I saw Top and Ghost break the surface, too. Then Brian. Bunny was somewhere off to my left, too far away to see.
Even with the bladders, the gear was heavy, but if you wanted to survive, you pulled your weight. Otherwise, you either went unarmed onto the beach or you drowned. Not a fan of either.
We’d picked an angle where the visibility and the movement of the tide were in our favor, but soon the danger shifted from drowning to being smashed on jagged black rocks. I lowered my feet until I found the bumpy surface and then reached for handholds among the boulders. I let the waves help me move forward one awkward step at a time. The surf splashed up to slap me in the face, but that was okay. The noise masked our sounds. The water shoaled quickly, and suddenly my knee was on a muddy slope.
The water thrashed and flew in wild directions, and a misshapen form shot past me, bounding through the cold water and rushing up to solid ground.
Ghost.
He ran low and fast, as silent as his name, head whipping to either side. There are times he looks a lot less like a dog and a lot more like some kind of primitive wolf. I am very glad he’s my friend. I’ve seen what happens to his enemies.
Then two more shapes rose up like gods of the deep. One vast and tall, with a monstrous sweep of shoulders, the other shorter but no less broad.
Bunny and Top.
Behind them, Brian Botley stood up as if he were coming out of a pool after a leisurely dip. He even grinned at me as he stalked up the beach. Weird kid.
We clustered together in the dense shadows beneath a corner of the build
Without Sam Imura we had no sniper, but Top was a pretty good shot. Better than Bunny or me. He took a sniper rifle and crawled up onto the island to find a shooter’s perch that provided good angles.
Bunny and I went in opposite directions as we circled the island on the rocky slope, keeping to the shadows under the walkway. We met again at the same spot.
“I got four guards on the east and north sides,” he reported. “Plus one guarding the finger pier. There’s a speedboat out there, too.”
“Three on this side,” I told him. “And another pair inside a boathouse.”
“Lot of guys. Everyone I saw was in black battle dress uniforms. My guess is either Kingsmen or Blue Diamond.”
“None of them are friends of ours,” I said quietly.
“Call the play.”
“I want it quiet until I’m inside. I’m going to see about taking out the two in the boathouse. There’s a door with a keycard scanner, and sentries working that spot will probably have cards. You watch my back. If anyone comes close or gets nosy, take them out as quietly as possible.”
He nodded and began screwing a Trinity sound suppressor onto his sidearm.
I did the same. Ghost saw it and actually seemed to perk up. Dog loves a fight.
“Hotzone, I want this whole place set to blow. Every load-bearing timber. And put up a few party favors we can use as a distraction. Something to call them out so Top can have some fun.”
Brian grinned like it was Christmas. He drummed his fingers on the canvas cover of the big bag that was slung across his chest. It was crammed with small but very powerful waterproof explosive charges. Like C4’s angrier cousin. Something Doctor Hu’s team cooked up for us. Each bomb had a radio detonator keyed to our mission channel. Any of us could detonate the bombs one at a time or all at once. Without a word, Brian moved off around the underside of the building to begin planting his charges on the support struts. He was smiling as he worked. Brian likes blowing things up. Everyone needs a hobby.
I checked the mission clock. It read: 00:09:33.
I nodded to Bunny, and we moved off to get this party started.
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-eight
UC San Diego Medical Center
200 West Arbor Drive
San Diego, California
April 1, 3:39 P.M.
Nicodemus came out of a closet that had been checked three times. Everyplace in the hospital had been checked. That did not matter to Nicodemus. He went where he wanted to go. It amused him when the soldiers with their hard eyes and their guns looked at him and did not see him. They saw shadows. They saw clothes on pegs. They saw corpses on slabs or patients in beds. They did not see him because he did not allow it.
Once he looked out from between the curtains around a dying woman’s bed and saw, far down the hall, a man that he had entertained in the chapel. Dense and slow, one-eyed and lame, tok-tokking his way down the hall on his cane with a soldier walking behind him like a Chinese bride.
Nicodemus could have taken him then. He almost did—it was that tempting.
But the moment wasn’t right.
He had agreed to do it a certain way, and he was bound to that bargain. Annoying, but there it was. A deal was a deal was a deal.
Now, though …
Well, now the time was as ripe as a peach.
Smiling to himself, Nicodemus walked out into the hall.
Where everyone could see him.
He loved the look of shock on their faces. He loved the way they turned. He loved the sound of their shouts. So bold, full of military jargon. He simply adored the sight of guns coming up, of barrels pointing his way.
He even raised his hands.
“It’s okay,” he called to them. “I’m not armed.”
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-nine
Air Force One
In Flight
April 1, 3:39 P.M. Pacific Standard Time
The door locks clicked into the locked position. When Church tried the manual control, he found it frozen.
A Secret Service agent pushed him aside. “Let me try.”
“Protect the president,” called Linden Brierly.
“What’s happening?” asked another voice. Then everyone was yelling. Fists hammered on the door from the other side, and there were more muffled yells from agents trying to get in.
“Where are the lights?”
“Turn on the security lights.”
“I have a penlight.”
A small light flared on and swept around the room, sweeping across faces filled with panic and fear.
Then the president’s voice rose above everyone’s. “Will someone tell me what the hell is happening?”
Everyone tried to, all at once; but it was Mr. Church who made himself heard.
“Enough!” he roared, and in the brief silence that followed, he spoke in his usual controlled tone. “Mr. President, it is clear that Solomon has been compromised. We need to assess our situation and regain control of the plane.”
“How?”
Church said, “Everyone with a laptop, open it and turn up the brightness. Cell phones, too. We need light to operate. If you have a flashlight feature, turn it on. Do it now. Then I want everyone back in your seats.”
Although Church’s voice was filled with calm command, the senior staff looked to the president for confirmation.
“Do what he says.”
They did.
“Linden,” said Church, “is your radio controlled through the plane’s Wi-Fi?”
“We have battery backup and our own hot spots. But our cell phones are—”
“One thing at a time. Tell your men to use a breaching tool to open this door. President’s orders.”
Again the president nodded. Brierly gave very specific orders to breach the door but leave weapons holstered.
“Everyone else get back from the door,” said Church. “Cover your faces with your arms. There will be splinters.”
Everyone complied, and within seconds there was a heavy thump on the door that shook the cabin. The door shuddered but did not open. Three seconds later, the agents on the other side tried again. This time the lock tore itself from the frame. Bits of metal and a storm of wood splinters filled the air, grazing arms, lodging in hair. Secret Service agents began to pile into the cramped conference room, but Brierly ordered them to stand down.
“Mr. President?” said Church.
“Go,” said the president. “Do whatever you have to do.”
As he spoke, though, there was a ghostly movement in front of his face. They all saw it. And for the first time they all felt it.
“What—?” murmured Bain.
“The heat,” said Brierly. “They cut the heat.”
The jet flew through the air at 506 miles an hour, flying at thirty-six thousand feet. The temperature outside was fifty-seven degrees below freezing.
Church left the conference room and moved quickly through the darkened plane. He pulled his cell phone and switched on the beam.
“On your six, Deacon,” said Brierly.
“You should stay with the president.”
“He’s secure. You’ll need help with this.”
They reached the cockpit door. Two Secret Service agents were fiddling with a keypad, trying to bypass the security.
“What have you got?” asked Brierly.
“We got a dead lock,” said one agent. “All electronics are frozen, and the onboard countermeasures have kicked in. Door is sealed against hijackers. Can’t get in without force. It’s hardened against breaching tools.”
“Can you contact the flight crew?”
“No, sir. They are totally unresponsive.”
Brierly glanced at Church. “Solomon controls everything, including oxygen. It can also release a sedative vapor. N
“What other surprises are there?”
Brierly shivered. “The same system is shipwide. They can freeze us, dope us, or kill us. And the system controls explosive bolts on the doors in case of emergency evacuation after a crash that’s killed the crew.”
“You knew about this and didn’t tell me,” said Church. It wasn’t a question or an accusation. It was, however, an eloquent statement of disappointment.
“This was approved by the president and—”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Linden. All we need to do is focus on solving this.”
“How?”
“Not sure yet.” Church reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and removed a small device about the size of a paperback book. From another pocket he removed a leather case that opened to reveal an array of very delicate tools. He knelt and shined his phone light on the keypad of the security-bypass terminal fixed to the bulkhead outside the cockpit. The terminal was there for emergencies and could only be accessed under very specific circumstances.
“Is Solomon keyed to defend against this system?” he asked.
Brierly was too long in answering.
“Solomon was built as a can’t-fail system in the event of a hijacking by technologically savvy intruders.”
“How clever. You must be proud.”
Church removed a set of wires and plugged the leads into ports on the terminal. Several lights flicked on along the face of the device he held. The lights were all red.
“Is that good?” asked Brierly. “Can you access the system?”
Church ignored the question. He pressed a button that caused two thin panels to open like wings from the lower part of his device. As they locked into place, tiny lights switched on to illuminate a holographic touch-screen keyboard. Church peeled away a strip of plastic film and pressed the top end of the device to the bulkhead below the terminal, held it in place for ten seconds, and then released it. The device stuck fast.